


Safe As Houses

by beckettemory



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, eidetic memory, read this it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: Most people don't think twice about the phrase "safe as houses," Nate included. It means something safe and secure, like a soft blanket and hot chocolate, doors locked securely against the encroaching danger outside.For some people, though... "safe as houses" isn't as comforting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: mention of drugs, mention of tooth injury, referenced child abuse and neglect, mention of forced seclusion, mention of head injuries, reference to (consensual) sexual situations, discussion of justified paranoia, mention of self-injurious behavior

_“Uh… Nate? You sure this is… safe?”_

_“Safe as houses.”_

 

* * *

 

Hardison remembered in great detail the first house that was actually safe.

He had been young, maybe ten, and his last foster dad had just been arrested. Drugs. Hardison remembered exactly the way acetone smelled when it spilled on the dirty linoleum and the way his foster uncle had cursed when he got lithium on his hands opening a battery. He wished he could forget the day his foster dad had lost a tooth at the dinner table.

Eidetic memory… not always a good thing, it turned out.

Nana had come to the precinct to pick him up. He'd been sipping at a sprite, kicking his legs forward and back in the hard plastic chair next to a cop’s desk, trying real hard not to think about all the other times he’d been shunted off to another home, trying not to get his hopes up, because those other houses had been bad from the get. Nana had strode into the bullpen, curly hair streaked with grey pulled up into a neat bun, wearing a powder blue polyester skirt and yellow cotton blouse, her powder blue jacket folded over her arm and brown leather pocket book hanging from her shoulder. She'd marched right up to little Alec in his dirty Road Runner t-shirt, his hastily packed backpack at his side and his homework left at the old house, and smiled real big.

“Hi Alec,” she'd said, her voice soft despite her confident, commanding presence. “My name’s Lois Hardison. I'm your new foster mom. You can call me Nana, if you like.”

“Hi,” little Alec had said. “I forgot my homework.”

Nana had laughed and patted him gently on the shoulder before disappearing for a few minutes to sign some paperwork and, he found out later, leave some choice words for the cops to relay to the foster dad in lockup. When she'd come back she'd held out her hand for Alec to take, and he’d avoided it, wary and slow to trust. So Nana had just smiled and gestured towards the elevator.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she'd asked. “Do you have a toothbrush and pajamas?”

A little while later they’d pulled up to Nana’s house. It was small and could use a coat of paint and a new screen on the front door, but it was a house. Alec had hesitated at the bottom of the porch stairs and Nana had simply left the door open as she went inside and put her pocket book down, humming as she went into the kitchen. Alec had bit his lip and looked up at the windows on the front of the house, and had recoiled in surprise when he saw two huge eyes watching him from an upstairs window. He'd hurried into the house, creeped out, and then he’d heard careful footsteps on stairs further back in the house.

He’d stood warily in the living room, furnished with mismatched pieces but neat and well lit. A little girl with fiery red hair and thick glasses had come quickly into the room from the door on the right that looked like a hallway, both hands trailing the wall. She'd squinted at him and bounced on her feet.

“Is that him?” she'd called without turning away from Alec. “Nana? Is that him?”

“Yes, hon,” Nana had called back, then she had come into the room herself. “Alec, this is Kelsey. Kelsey, this is Alec.”

“I’m Kelsey!” the girl had exclaimed, overlapping Nana’s introduction excitedly.

“Alec is going to be living with us,” Nana had told her. “Kelsey, can you show Alec around? I’ve got to start some laundry.”

Kelsey had nodded excitedly and shot forward to grab Alec’s hand, missing a couple times before finally closing her tiny hand around his wrist and _pulling._

“Do you like _The Brady Bunch?”_ she’d asked in a rush as she dragged him away, and Alec heard Nana chuckling in the kitchen. “It’s on right now!”

She’d trailed one hand along the wall and hauled him into the hallway with the other, strong for her size. He’d just followed, unsure and overwhelmed, as she showed him Nana’s bedroom, the downstairs bathroom (and the shelf in the cupboard that had fallen), the hall closet where they kept the linens, the kitchen… When she’d dragged him upstairs it had taken longer, because she’d had to concentrate real hard to put her foot square in the middle of each stair.

She had horrible eyes, Alec had realized when the tour was over and she’d dragged him back into the living room. She’d turned on the television, squinting at the remote even though it was an inch from her nose, and then sat right up in front of the screen. Alec had sat on the floor behind her, watching around her head and trying to be unobtrusive.

That night Nana had sat on the edge of his bed and told him a story, about princes and dragons and trolls, and if he was being honest with himself he’d retold that same story to himself every now and then when he couldn’t sleep, even as a grown up, Nana’s voice in his head doing the different voices. He’d laid in bed that night with the covers pulled up to his chin, still wary, but allowing himself to hope, pray, that this house would be safer than the others. 

It had been, and he’d retell that story to himself day after day when he finally left Nana’s house as an adult and lived for the first time on his own in a Chicago apartment, remember it the day he’d made his first alias that would stick with him forever.

Alec Hardison. Nana’s boy.

“Safe as houses,” to Hardison, meant that first night of complete safety in Nana’s house.

 

* * *

 

Parker never understood that phrase, how it was supposed to be comforting.

_Safe as houses._

Houses weren't safe.  Houses had too many doors and locks and attics and. People. The people were the worst part.

No, the worst part was that if it happened in a house, it didn't count.

If you were little and upset the grown ups could lock you in your bedroom for days and it would be okay because no one else saw. If you were little and got in trouble the grown ups could hit you and it would be okay because no one else saw.

In school they showed videos about stranger danger and what to do if a grown up at school or in public hurt you. Never if a grown up hurt you in a house. Because houses didn't count.

Even as a grown up herself, Parker didn't like houses unless she was stealing from them, and even then her heart pounded when she heard the click of a door closing behind her or the scrape of a deadbolt turning under someone else’s hands.

She lived in warehouses. Warehouses didn't have many doors, and all her living quarters had only security measures she installed herself, only locks and security systems vetted by her and combinations and codes she alone knew. No closets just big enough to fit a ten year old and a handful of coats.

Houses weren't safe. They never had been.

 

* * *

 

Houses were fine, as far as Eliot was concerned.

Empty houses, or houses where it was just him and maybe a dog, those were fine. Other people's empty apartments in the city, fine. Tents out in the wilderness, fine.

The issue was when there were other people around. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he actually slept when there were other people present. When he wasn’t unconscious, that is. Being knocked out and taking a concussion nap in the presence of his attackers, that was another thing entirely.

He put a lot of effort into exuding nonchalance everywhere he went, making himself invisible, or at least unremarkable. The fewer people paying attention to him, the better. Feeling eyes on him was bad enough when he intended to stay up, but his skin _crawled_ at the thought of someone being awake while he was asleep.

Every city he lived in, he bought a house. Quiet neighborhoods or, preferably, out in the country.  Apartments were out of the question. Each house got outfitted with a sophisticated security system, installed by himself, and half a dozen assorted deadbolts on every door. If he thought he’d live in a house for a while, he fostered a dog, one with a strong protective streak. _Then_ he could sleep.

Hotels were tricky. He could sometimes turn off his paranoia long enough to get a couple of hours of sleep, but before and after that there were perimeter checks every half-hour at least, every lock on the door turned and the window drapes pulled.

And he always, always, went home alone.

When he had dates, they always went to the date’s place afterwards. And he never, ever stayed the night. Didn’t matter if there was a snowstorm or his truck ran out of gas or what; he’d walk home if he had to, and he’d feel a target on his back the whole time.

Houses were unsafe. He’d learned that the hard way, over and over.

The first time he fell asleep in the presence of someone else, it was an accident.

It had been in the Leverage offices, only eight months into the group forming. They’d had two jobs in quick succession, long jobs with lots of punching on Eliot's part. He’d had a few hours of downtime, between taking down half a dozen ex-CIA dudes and the cocktail party he’d need to be waitstaff for. Nate had gone to the mark’s house to mess with him, so Eliot had needed to be on hand in case something went bad, so driving to his house was out of the question. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, he’d just cleaned himself up and sat in the conference room with a sandwich, the wall of screens turned to a basketball game, Parker in the kitchen clattering around for cereal supplies, Hardison puttering around looking for something to do.

He hadn’t even nodded off. If he had he would have gotten up and done some jumping jacks or swallowed down some coffee, done a perimeter check, _something_ to keep himself alert. No, he’d finished his sandwich and stretched out as well as the chair would allow, his hands resting behind his head, intending to watch the game, and conked out sometime around halftime.

He’d woken up as the game was ending, Hardison shouting encouragements at the screens as the clock ticked down. Eliot had jumped, recoiling all the way out of his chair and receiving concerned looks from both Hardison and Parker, on either side of him. Eliot had stuttered excuses and locked himself in his office, scraping his short nails down his arms over and over before throwing himself into a workout to keep himself awake, berating himself silently for letting his guard down _that much._

When he’d emerged from his office after a while to clean himself up in the bathroom, Parker had been sitting against the wall outside his door.

“The Lakers won,” she’d said casually.

He’d frowned down at her from where he stood, frozen mid-stride, a clean t-shirt in hand.

“Since you slept through the game,” Parker had explained.

“Right,” he’d said, tense and not quite sure why his skin wasn’t crawling under her attention.

Parker had rolled to her feet smoothly. “You’ve never fallen asleep here,” she'd said, her eyes narrowed.

He’d let out a short laugh, hoping it sounded casual, but Parker’s expression hadn’t changed. “I don’t… like sleepin’ around other people,” he’d explained.

She’d shrugged. “Okay,” she’d said, and turned on her heel. Eliot had watched her go, his mind racing.

He’d admitted to a weakness, and she hadn’t taken it personally or tried to use it against him.

He’d finally unfrozen and continued on to the bathroom, doing mental calculations the whole way.

After that he’d fallen asleep at the offices a couple times, always when he was alone there, never on purpose.

And nothing bad had happened.

It was years before he could sleep around people on purpose, and even then it was only select people. But occupied houses still made him uneasy, even if they were his own.

 

* * *

 

_“Uh… Nate? You sure this is… safe?”_

_“Safe as houses.”_

_Parker looked between Eliot and Hardison, all three of them wondering if Nate actually thought their plan was safe._


End file.
